


Amongst the Wood Sorrel, Below the Winter Cherry, Blooms One Red Rose

by Salvia_G



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Epistolary, Gen, M/M, Timeline What Timeline, gratuitous floriography and a pretentious title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years after he was sent away from Erebor, Bilbo Baggins writes to Thorin Oakenshield of regrets, lost love, and a healing heart.</p>
<p>Thorin takes that about like you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A letter and its reception

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny came out of nowhere to attack me, and it was RABID; so the following story had to be written immediately, despite an intimidatingly looming WIP backlog. You may blame (or thank) ManhattanMom for telling me that it could be posted as is...
> 
> And NO, I have no idea in Middle Earth what happens next in this story!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to lots of inspirational encouragement, I have an idea or two about what to do from here, thus the chapter count moving to three chapters… Thank you all for your kind and encouraging words! (And also your slightly demanding and rather pushy words!)

_To Thorin II, King under the Mountain, Greetings:_

 

_Such a way to begin!  But truly, I do not know what to say:  I gave up the right to call you dear long ago, though you do remain so to me._

_Perhaps you can imagine what a surprise it was to me to open my door and find Balin on my step, as I had not thought when I left the Lonely Mountain that I should ever see any of you again; for I knew that I was not welcome in Erebor; nor did I expect that any of the Company should have reason to come to the distant Shire._

_And I suspect I provided Balin with as much surprise as he did me, after all, so I cannot complain; and it was such a very happy surprise indeed!_

_I have been so pleased to hear Balin speak of how all of you thrive in your reclaimed home.  It has been a painful thought to me, that it was likely I should never know how you fared.  News of the East does not travel to the placid Shire.  Hobbits are neither particularly curious about the world beyond our boundaries nor are most of us prone to travel past Bree—and many never go so far as that.  The great affairs of Men and Elves and Dwarves seem to have little relevance to our sleepy lives._

_I had become quite a typical Hobbit in that sense before I met you.  Now they call me Mad Baggins, as not only have I traveled far beyond the wildest imaginings of most Hobbits, but when I did come back, I had been quite changed by my adventures._

_You must not think I would choose to still be as I was.  I am grateful for every moment of our time together.  It seems very short to me now._

_I hesitate to pen the next words; I imagine I am deceiving myself to think that you care a whit about my life since you cast me away._

_Perhaps I am a fool to think that you will not have burned this without opening it._

_Nevertheless:  though my quill is diffident, I shall continue._

_Although I was gladdened to come home again, it was very lonely for me when I first returned to the Shire.  Yet how my heart leapt to see the green door of my own Bag End!  How it quavered to bid Gandalf, last of my journey’s companions, goodbye!_

_There was a bit of a kerfluffle at my homecoming; but I don’t expect that you would be impressed, you who faced down a dragon to return to your home.  So I shall not bother to tell that story, only to say that not everyone was pleased to see me again!  But it is far easier to vanquish a Hobbit or two or even fifty than one great Fire Drake; so as I have written above, I shall mention no more about it.  Balin was not so lucky as to escape the tale; he was forced to listen to me recount the whole silly business; so should you have the least interest in such Hobbity news, I refer you to him._

_But once all the nonsense was over and I was once more settled into my soft chair and my pipe packed with Old Toby again…ah, then._

_It has always been solitary, my life, since my mother’s death some years ago; but now I found it desolate.  I was terribly lonesome, as sick with longing for my friends as I sometimes was (as you well know) for the comforts of home while we journeyed to Erebor.  For how could the plentiful and varied contents of my larder content me when none shared my table?  And how could my bed seem wide and soft and warm when I slept in it alone?_

_I suppose you care nothing for the emptiness of my life in that time.  I know from Balin how very full your own life has been as you have settled into the business of ruling a great Dwarven kingdom.  If nothing else, it may serve as affirmation to you:  my banishment was for many years a painful penance I paid unwillingly but silently, knowing that any who cared were far away and believed my expulsion from the Lonely Mountain justly deserved.  You may be satisfied with that.  I cannot chastise you for it; Erebor is yours to rule, and it is yours to there welcome or eschew any but your subjects._

_Nor can I allow myself to regret my eviction; for as it happens, I have lately been needed here in a way that it seems I was never required amongst you after the burglary was done.  Again I presume that you feel only indifference to my situation, but I find some compensation in choosing to impart the information nonetheless._

_Three years ago, my cloistered existence was shattered by the arrival of an unexpected and unlooked for companion.  At first, I hardly knew how to speak to him, nor he me; but we were thrown together by circumstances neither of us could avoid.  What we wished did not matter; we could not elude each other; and as a result, although we were strangers and there existed between us a great divide, we were forced to spend many hours together._

_At first these long hours in company with him seemed another penance to me.  I had not chosen to return to my quiet, lonely life; but neither had I chosen to share it with another, and one of whom I knew nothing and with whom I had nothing in common but some distant cousins:  something that I can say of almost every Hobbit in the Shire.  But I daresay that this unavoidable society was good for me: it was beneficial to my lowered spirits to be distracted from my mournful thoughts and required to consider the demands of another for the first time in many years.  And as we slowly came to know each other, I learnt that while it seemed on the face of it that we were quite different, we were not as different as I had thought; and that we did in fact have one significant commonality:  each of us suffered from the loss of our most necessary loved ones, and it was in that shared state of bereavement that we found our understanding of each other._

_Within a period of months, I could not imagine my life without him._

_The dissimilarity between us remains, but it cannot stand against the great love that I hold for him and that I believe he holds for me.  In particular, he is a considerable number of years younger than I; and as a result my peaceful sanctuary has at times become rather loud and boisterous.  But as I have already related to you how distressing I had come to find my quiet solitude, you may perceive that this was for me a happy circumstance._

_His name is Frodo, and he has made me far happier than I deserve._

_I thought when I left you that my heart had no room in it for another, but I was wrong.  My love for him cannot be compared to my love for you, but neither can the opposite assertion be made; and what was broken when I was required to relinquish you he has made whole again._

_I pray that you can be happy for me; nevertheless I expect only disinterest.  Even so I have written it; compelled, I believe, by my wish that on occasion during the passing years your thoughts have turned to me as mine did to you._

_It is my greatest wish that you should continue to prosper in Erebor.  Know that whatever has passed between us, this Hobbit thinks of you with fondness._

_Your humble servant,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

 

***

 

Balin looked up as the door to his study slammed against the wall.  The king stormed through the opening, his countenance a mask of anger.

“You knew of this and said nothing to me?” he roared, waving a sheaf of paper threateningly at Balin.  “Is it not enough that you left the mountain without my foreknowledge, but you must also conspire to keep secrets from me?”

Balin regarded Thorin mildly, seemingly undisturbed by his king’s choler.

“Good evening, your Majesty,” he said.  “I’m not certain to what you refer.  My desk was completely covered with reports and requests and decrees and other various detritus when I returned, and I haven’t begun to sift through it all.  Everyone seems to have been very busy while I was gone but my deputy.”

Thorin waved his hand dismissively at the mess of papers that did, in fact, completely cover Balin’s desk and tumble over onto the floor.

“I don’t mean any of that rubbish; I mean this,” he growled, tossing the bundle of parchment onto the desk in front of Balin.  Deliberately Balin picked up the papers and perused them.

“If you mean did I know that Bilbo had written to you, then the answer of course is yes; which you know because I handed you the letter myself,” he said.  “If you mean did I know the contents of the letter, then the answer is no; Bilbo didn’t invite me to read it or tell me what he wrote.”

Thorin huffed in frustration and sorted through the sheets of paper until he found the selected portion of the letter.

“This!” he said.  “You must have seen this!”

Balin adjusted his spectacles and carefully examined the paragraphs in question.

“Ah,” he said.

“Ah!” Thorin repeated.  “Ah!  Clearly you did know!”

“Yes, I did,” Balin answered with a sigh.  “I met young Frodo during my visit to Bag End.  I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it relevant, Thorin.”

“I have an interest in the matter,” Thorin said stubbornly.

The look Balin directed at Thorin was now disapproving.

“Bilbo is not a possession,” he said.  “And you gave up any claim to him when you ejected him from the mountain.  With prejudice, I might add.”

Thorin gathered the pages of the letter together in silence.  When he was done, he turned to sullenly regard the fire warming Balin’s chamber.

“Hobbits are fickle creatures.  Dwarves are more steadfast,” he said.  “I have not replaced him in my heart as he has done me.”

Balin stood and moved to stand by Thorin’s side.

“He hasn’t forgotten you, Thorin,” he said.  “I don’t think he could.”

“Why would he taunt me so?” Thorin asked quietly.  

“I think you hurt him deeply,” Balin answered.  “I don’t think he meant to taunt you, though.  I don’t think Bilbo believes he has the power over you to do so.”

The two Dwarves watched the flickering fire. Its crackling was the only sound in the room.

After several minutes, Thorin spoke again.

“You saw them together,” he said.  “Does he love him?  Truly?”

Balin took a deep breath.

“I don’t like to get involved in this,” he replied.  “There’s more than Bilbo is saying here, and it’s between the two of you.  No good comes of interfering with estranged lovers.”

“I don’t need to know what he isn’t telling me,” Thorin said resolutely.  “I want to know if he loves him.”

Balin shook his head.

“I’m not—“ he began.

“I don’t care about what he hasn’t said.  Tell me!  Yes or no!” Thorin turned on Balin and roared.  “ _Does he love him?_ ”

A heavy silence fell over the two of them before Balin answered.

“Yes,” he said.  “They love each other very much.”

Thorin erased any expression from his face.  He nodded blankly and turned back to stare into the fire.

“I didn’t know I still cared so much,” he said after a moment.

“I didn’t either,” Balin said.  “You have hid it well.”  He sighed again.  “The way you loved him, the way he loved you…  Well.  It’s been done with a long time now.  There’s no going back, laddie, only forward.”

Thorin nodded and left without bidding Balin farewell.

Balin returned to his desk and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“This is a right mess.  I hope you know what you’re doing, Bilbo,” he said to himself.  “I hope _I_ know what _I’m_ doing.”

He shook his head and began sorting through the mess of papers in front of him.

 

Half an hour later Thorin was back.

“What isn’t he telling me?” he asked without prelude.

Balin sighed.

 


	2. the questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one might expect, Bilbo's letter has prompted some questions. Thorin expects Balin to have answers for him.

 

 

 

Once again Thorin strode into Balin’s study without knocking, and Balin sighed to see him.

“He writes that there was some disturbance upon his return to the Shire,” Thorin asked.

“Oh, yes,” Balin said, smiling fondly as he recalled the animated way Bilbo had told the tale to Frodo’s accompanying giggles.  “I think it all settled out fairly quickly, though, with only a few consequences, not really of any note.”  He very deliberately turned his attention back to the letter before him.

Thorin sat.  Balin raised an eyebrow at him.

“Please, sit,” he said tartly, gesturing to the chair Thorin had already taken.  “I haven’t much to do at all, despite having been gone these several months.”

“Surely you have a moment for your king,” Thorin returned dryly.

“Very well,” Balin said.  “With what may I assist your majesty?”

“Tell me this story,” Thorin demanded, “of what happened when Bilbo arrived at his home.”

 

***

 

Two days later, Thorin interrupted Balin in his study again.

“Good evening, Thorin,” Balin said with resignation.  “And how fared your meeting with Bard?”

Thorin waved away Balin’s question and dropped heavily into the chair facing Balin’s desk.

“He writes that he was lonely,” he said.

“Who writes?” Balin asked disingenuously.  Thorin glared at him, and Balin exhaled wearily.

“I think he _was_ lonely, incredibly lonely,” he told Thorin.  “I could see it in him still, at times.  In a way, it was gratifying, to be valued so, to be missed so much; and he was very happy to see me and insatiable for news of the mountain, but I admit to feeling quite a lot of pity for him.  I think it was very difficult for him at first.”  He paused and then decided to say no more about it, but Thorin knew him too well.

“And?” he prompted.  “What else?”

Balin grimaced.

“What else?” Thorin repeated dangerously.

“It was hard for him,” Balin said reluctantly.

“Balin…” Thorin warned.

“I…I do not know for certain,” Balin finally answered.  “We didn’t speak of it.  But…I dislike thinking what he might have done had Frodo not entered his life.”

Thorin scowled and slumped in his chair.

“Ah, his beloved Frodo,” he said bitterly, and then he sulked for a while; Balin ignored him as best he could in favour of his book, but he had hardly read a page when Thorin spoke again.

“What do you mean, you ‘dislike thinking what he might have done?’” he asked.

Balin shut his book and closed his eyes in exasperation.

“What do you think I mean, Thorin?” he asked.  “He had no companions, for his friends remained here while he was forced to leave; and he was ostracized by the community in which he lived upon his return to his home; and he believed that he had destroyed the love of his life through his own action.  I believe that his spirits had grown alarmingly low.”

Thorin jerked, sending his gaze abruptly to a spot on the wall behind Balin’s shoulder.  He glowered darkly at the wall as if it were to blame for this revelation; and then he surged out of his chair and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

 

Thorin next cornered Balin at the evening meal.

“Exactly how much younger than Bilbo is this Frodo?” he asked.  Fili, sitting at Thorin’s right, choked on his stew.

“I don’t know exactly,” Balin replied.  “I don’t think I ever asked Frodo’s age.  But it is a noticeable difference, to be sure.”

Thorin huffed and shoved a piece of ham in his mouth.  He ignored Balin for the remainder of the meal.

 

***

 

Balin and Thorin were riding down to Dale along with no small parade of Dwarves, including Fili and Dwalin (as not only kin, but also representatives of the Company), to meet with Bard; as the last time they had met, Bard had come to the mountain, when Thorin dropped back from the lead position to direct his pony next to Balin’s.

“He writes that they don’t have much in common, this Frodo and he,” he said without prelude.

“Oh, I think they have more in common than Bilbo realises,” Balin replied.  “Though perhaps the differences are easier to see.”

“Like what?” Thorin asked, though his reluctance to do so was seeping out of his very pores.

“And sometimes even a great gulf between two people can be overcome,” Balin continued complacently, “if what they do share is important enough.  If they are thrown together by circumstances…  Really, can you say it was so different for you and Bilbo?  On the face of it, there’s not much to suggest you’d have the slightest connection to each other.”

“We were united in our quest,” Thorin replied stiffly.

“Aye, and how long was it before you understood that Bilbo was someone you could trust to share that quest, was someone you could rely on?” Balin asked.  “And he says it himself:  once we’d taken Erebor back, that shared goal was gone, wasn’t it?”

“Whatever he has shared with this Frodo cannot be near to what we shared during our time together,” Thorin persisted.  “The trials and the danger, the joy and the sorrow…it is more than reaching the final goal.  It binds people together.”

“Aye,” Balin agreed, “as does shared mourning.”

Thorin was stubbornly silent.

“Is that what brought them together, Bilbo and his new love?” Dwalin interjected.  Thorin shot him a pointed look, and he protested.  “What?  A Dwarf can’t be curious about a friend and companion he hasn’t seen in a long time?”

“It was that initially, I believe,” Balin said, after he judged that Thorin would like to know the answer to that question as well.

“And they’re both Hobbits,” Fili added, “so they have all that means:  they share a culture, a common heritage…”

Dwalin nodded.  “A language and a land,” he said.

“And Uncle and Bilbo share none of that,” Fili said.  “Their lives have been so dissimilar, and Dwarves and Hobbits—you remember how silly and fussy and useless he seemed at first?”

“Aye,” said Dwalin.  “And the language is a good point—I don’t know if others can really understand us, without knowing Khuzdul.”

“Who invited the two of you into this conversation?” Thorin asked.

“Come now, Uncle,” Fili said.  “You’re not the only one who misses Bilbo.  I’d like to know how he fares as well.”

“I don’t—“ Thorin started to say, but cut himself off to take a different tack.  “Every Hobbit in the Shire has the same commonalities.  It means very little; they were eager enough to spurn him despite those ties.”

“True,” Balin said.  “I think it’s one of the reasons Frodo is so very important to Bilbo, and another similarity between them; for I believe Frodo felt a kindred isolation, especially at the beginning, when his loss was so fresh.”

“Bilbo called him loud and boisterous,” Thorin groused.

“We’re loud and boisterous, and Bilbo likes us,” Fili laughed.

“As I recall, Bilbo also wrote that he welcomed the change to his quiet existence,” Balin added.  “Frodo has brought some rejuvenating youth into his life, I believe.”

“Bilbo also wrote that he was demanding,” Thorin said, his mouth a thin line, his flinty eyes daring any Dwarf to contradict him.

“Did he?” Balin asked mildly.

“I imagine he has to convince Mountain Trolls not to eat him because he has parasites,” Fili teased.

“Or break him out of Elvish jails and send him downriver in a barrel,” Dwalin chortled.

“Feed him, twelve companions and a spare Wizard dinner.”

“Follow him into Goblintown.”

“Chase away spiders ten times his size and cut him out of their webs.”

“Talk a bear into sheltering and aiding him.”

“Defend him against a Warg-riding Gundabad Orc, armed only with a letter opener.”

“Face down a fire-breathing Dragon.”

“Steal the Arkenstone.”

An uncomfortable silence shattered their merriment to pieces.

 

***

 

One week later Thorin and Balin rested comfortably in Balin’s common room, sharing a bottle of wine as the evening drew to a close.

“Why would he think I do not care?” Thorin protested discontentedly from his place by the fire.  Balin, cozily ensconced opposite, smiled sadly at his king.

“He did not leave under the best of circumstances,” he reminded Thorin.

“That was his own doing,” Thorin argued.

“I suppose so,” Balin admitted.

They sat in silence, watching the fire, but Thorin could not remain silent for long.

“He could not expect to be welcome here after what he did!” Thorin exclaimed.

“Of course not,” Balin agreed.

“He betrayed me, betrayed all of us,” Thorin said, anger and hurt inextricably mixed in his voice.

“It is hard to see it otherwise, though I don’t believe he meant to do so,” Balin said.

“He does not apologise,” Thorin said.

“No,” Balin said.

“He says he does not regret it!” Thorin exclaimed.

“Does he?” Balin asked placidly.  “I am surprised to hear that.”

“He does!” Thorin roared.  “He writes, ‘nor can I allow myself to regret my eviction!’”

“I see,” Balin said.  “I didn’t read the entire letter, if you recall; only the particular portion you showed me.”

“Here!” Thorin said.  He reached into his cloak and drew Bilbo’s letter out of an inner pocket, near throwing it at Balin.  His resentment at demonstrating thusly that he carried the letter with him could not be clearer.  Balin took out his glasses and began to read.

“Hmm,” Balin murmured when he had finished the letter.

“You see!” Thorin exclaimed angrily.  “He says exactly that!”

“Not _exactly_ that,” Balin demurred.

“No?” Thorin asked.  “He says it!”  But Balin rather thought Thorin hoped to be contradicted, and as he could honestly do so…

“What he says is not that he doesn’t regret his actions,” Balin said.  “Though I don’t know that he would do it differently were it possible, but at any rate that’s not what he means here.  What he says is this:  someone needed him in the Shire, and we no longer needed him here.”

Thorin frowned at him.

“Give me that,” he said, snatching Bilbo’s letter out of Balin’s hands; but it was a very gentle snatch,  careful not to tear the pages, Balin thought, as he watched Thorin peruse the section of the letter in question.

“He means this Frodo, I suppose,” Thorin said after a while.

“Yes, I agree,” Balin said.

“Does he think we did not need him anymore, simply because his task was completed?” Thorin demanded.  Balin didn’t answer.  After a long moment, Thorin continued.

“He is wrong,” he said.  “He was always wanted.  He was always needed.”  He paused, and gritted his teeth, and Balin could see that he was gathering his courage.  “Does he think this Frodo needed, needs, him more than I—than we do?  Would you agree?”

Balin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“It’s a different sort of need,” he told Thorin.  “I don’t know that comparing the two needs is possible.”

“Try,” Thorin said bluntly.

Balin pursed his lips in thought, and after a while he frowned pityingly at Thorin.

“I think Bilbo does think Frodo needs him more; and what’s more, I think he’s right,” he said.  “As much as we might want Bilbo here in Erebor, I think these last years have proved that we do not need him; and Frodo most certainly does.”

Thorin’s chin firmed as he stared into the fire for a time, and then he stood and walked to the door; but he paused there, his hand on the handle, not looking back at Balin.

“You’re wrong,” he said.  “He _is_ needed here; and I cannot see how anyone could have more claim on him than we do, especially some come-lately Hobbit.”  He didn’t slam the door behind him as he left, though Balin almost wished he had.  It might make him feel less guilty.

 _Well, I am at least as complicit in this as you, Bilbo,_ he thought.  _I pray some good will come of this, for otherwise we are torturing Thorin to no purpose._

 

***

 

The Company dined in private when they were able, which was not as often as Balin would prefer; but tonight they had been so blessed.  Thorin sat at the head of the table, with Fili at his right and Kili next to Fili; and Balin sat on the other side of Kili.  So when Thorin again engaged him regarding Bilbo’s letter, the entire table leant forward to listen.

“You told him some of the history of our reclamation of Erebor,” Thorin said.

Balin smiled.

“Aye, he pestered me with questions about the Company and how we fared here near as much as you have been pestering me these past weeks,” he said.  “He said it soothed him, to know we were happy and flourishing, and to speak of his friends with one who knew them.”

“He wished for me continued prosperity,” Thorin said.  “He called it his greatest wish.”

“I believe it might be at that,” Balin said.  “Bilbo has always had a generous heart.”

“Much has occurred since your return,” Thorin pointed out.  “We have joined in another treaty with Dale, and even visited dank Mirkwood.”

“To snarl at Thranduil and be treated to the sight of his upturned nose; yes, Bilbo would see that as progress, I’m sure,” Balin said dryly.

“I _went_ , didn’t I?” Thorin spit.  “But what I mean is this:  we were cruel not to communicate with him.  We must do better than we have.  Every day brings some occurrence of interest under the Mountain, and it is only just to respond in kind to a friend’s overture of reconciliation.  We should let Bilbo know how we fare.”

“I agree!” Balin exclaimed, delighted.  “I am sure a letter from you, or any member of the Company, with news of Erebor would be greeted with joy in Bag End!”

Thorin didn’t respond beyond a dark frown, and Balin suppressed a smile.

“It is a chancy thing, of course, sending a letter,” he added.  “You never know if it has passed safely from hand to hand as it must, to reach its destination; and Bag End is far away, and the Shire quite isolated, really; unfortunately it’s unlikely to arrive at all.  Perhaps if a merchant traveling to the Blue Mountains could be commissioned to convey it as far as Bree, then it might be worth the effort.  I believe Bilbo said he goes to Bree every other year or so.  What a delightful surprise it would be, to be greeted with news of us Dwarves!”

“I wouldn’t entrust a letter for Bilbo to a merchant I barely know,” Thorin growled.  “And the way you paint it, a letter wouldn’t reach Bilbo for years, if then!”

“You remember what it was like, trying to send to Dain for advice, when we lived in the Blue Mountains,” Balin said.  “It’s no small distance to the Shire.”

“It’s not as far as the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills!” Thorin argued.  “You traveled there in what?  A month?”

“Near that,” Balin said.  “Perhaps a bit less; the weather was quite good for travel.”

“You see!” Thorin said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest in triumph.

“I bow to your wisdom, your Majesty,” Balin said.  “When will you depart?”

Thorin’s back stiffened and his eyes narrowed.  Balin maintained a cool visage, though he chastised himself for showing his hand too soon.  The entire table listened in tense silence.

“Two weeks,” Thorin grumbled at last.  “Unless you can get rid of Thranduil’s envoy sooner than that.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Balin said soothingly.

“Oh, I’m coming too,” Kili erupted.

“And I!” burst out of ten other throats.

 


	3. The Road to the Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finds time to contemplate as the Company returns to the Shire.

***

 

 

Thorin wasn’t sure what to think when Balin declined joining the Company for another journey to the Shire.

“I’ve just been,” he demurred, “and if all of the rest of you go, someone must stay to prevent the mountain from falling down around our ears.”

“Erebor didn’t fall apart while you were gone the first time,” Ori coaxed.

“It was a near thing, the way I hear it,” Balin replied dryly.  “No, I’ll stay; thank you.  I’ll send a letter to Bilbo, though, and you must send him my love—and to young Frodo too, of course.”

“Of course we can’t forget _young Frodo_ ,” Thorin muttered.  Balin smiled genially at his king.

“I think young Frodo is likely to surprise you,” he told Thorin.

Thorin snorted and turned to speak to Dís about holding the mountain in his stead until his return.  She promised to keep Balin busy enough for 100 Dwarves, which was only what he deserved.  Satisfying as it was to have this petty revenge, nevertheless on the eve of his departure for the Shire, he must set aside this low boiling resentment at the sense he had that Balin had manipulated him, using the mysterious Frodo to prick him into realising his feelings for Bilbo were not as well buried as he had thought.  He didn’t like being made to see a painful truth, even if it was a trusted friend and advisor that had done so.  Nor did it sit well with him that he would have forever allowed the distance between Bilbo and him to stand if not for jealousy of a rival of whom he knew little more than a name.  He had never learned to forgive the wrongs done to him or his people, and for the first time he wished that he knew how to do so.  He might not have lost Bilbo to another, had he been able to let go of his feelings of betrayal. He would still hold fast to the one he had once cherished more than any other.  He would never have sent his love away, and a Hobbit named Frodo would never have wormed his way into Bilbo’s heart.

But he would set thoughts of this Frodo from his mind.  Hobbits were all the same:  fat, complacent, timid creatures who never left their comfortable nests; all but one, and that one was the only one amongst them worth knowing.

It was a very different path that the Dwarves took from Erebor to the Shire than the one that had brought them hence.  Oh, they did not take another route, but this journey bore as much resemblance to that one as granite did to shale.

To begin, it was the middle of spring when they set forth from the Lonely Mountain; and while it was spring when they had departed Bag End, April on the mountain was a brisk sibling to April in the Shire, which Thorin remembered as green and balmy.  The road they took to Dale was muddy, the breeze was chill, and all the world seemed gray and brown.  The Mirkwood was a bit more protected and Thorin thought there was always at least a bit of green there, but it was a different place than it had been before as well.  Thranduil (spurred by Gandalf, Thorin believed) had at last exerted his people to drive forth the spiders and other foul things that blighted the forest, so the path was safer than it had been before.  More, they had not only Thranduil’s reluctant blessing on their passage through the forest, but also a guide to direct them.  Thorin was annoyed to realise how many various way stations for travelers there were in the woods, providing water to quench their thirst and shelter for their weary bodies, if only one had an Elf to find the path again afterwards.  Their guide even directed them as to what was safe to forage in the forest and what was not, so while they still watched their food carefully, they were in no danger of starving.  Most frustrating of all to Thorin:  he was sure the journey took less than half the time with the Elf guiding them, though he could not see how such a thing could be possible.  Nevertheless he spent many pointless hours fulminating on the matter as they trekked through the forest.

Beorn, at least, was unchanged; though Thorin suspected their welcome would have been warmer had they been accompanied by a certain “little bunny,” or at least the wizard.  Still, while he was perhaps a bit unsociable, the skinchanger was not unwelcoming; and his home at the foot of the Carrock, surrounded by bee-dotted meadow as it was, was a warm and sunny change to the shadowed Mirkwood.  In addition, Thorin thought the brevity of the Dwarves’ stay (and their prompt departure) contributed much to the continued civility of their time there.

Then the High Road over the Misty Mountains lay before them.  Thorin had dreaded that portion of their route, and only the fact that the other choice was the pass through Khazad-dum kept him on that path.  Whatever dwelt in the depths below that Dwarven citadel was darker by far than any number of Goblins, vicious pestilence that they were.  And Khazad-dum…there were too many ghosts at Azanulbizar for that route to sit easy on Thorin.  He did not go back; he carried on; it was who he was.  He did not know any other way to be.  But he never forgot either, not a moment of what had come before; and he walked with the weight of those deaths on his back.  He could not face the place their spirits haunted without considerable suffering.

But the Dwarves benefited from the knowledge gained in their first trek over the mountains. They now recognized the signs of a Goblin trap and were able to avoid them easily, and the Valar seemed to smile approvingly on their travels:  the days were sunny, dry, and yet not too chill; and so the mountain trail flew under their feet.  Thorin thought he was not the only one of the Company who was glad to put the Misty Mountains behind them.

And then there was Rivendell.  Thorin did not want to go into the Elf haven, and indeed they need not; the seclusion that was part of Rivendell’s protection meant the road to the Shire bypassed the city.  But Thorin owed a debt to Elrond, and the thought of leaving it unacknowledged made him feel even surlier than he already felt next to the Elves.

Especially _these_ Elves.  While he hated and would continue to hate Thranduil for the rest of his life, Thranduil at least had his flaws; and ironically that made him easier for Thorin to bear than the serene Elrond.  With Thranduil, at least Thorin met him as an equal.  Elrond’s wisdom and graciousness made Thorin feel like a sulky child in comparison.

So although he hated the idea and expected to hate every second of their (very short, he hoped) sojourn with the High Elves, they planned for a brief rest there before turning their feet towards the Shire.

Elrond was as serene and astute as ever, and Thorin did not enjoy telling him that they journeyed to the Shire for the first time since they had won back the Lonely Mountain.

“It has been some years since Bilbo Baggins stayed in our halls on his return to his home,” Elrond noted mildly.  “You have waited a long time to choose to visit him.”

“Much work was necessary in reclaiming our home,” Thorin replied with as much composure as he could gather.  Elrond’s manner might be calm, but Thorin was sensitive to its implied censure.  “But now Erebor thrives.”

“Indeed, I have heard as much,” Elrond said.  He paused before continuing.  “I will admit that I had doubts as to the wisdom of your venture at the time.”

“I am aware,” Thorin said.

“Was I so transparent?” Elrond asked.  “I have more often been accused of cultivating an air of enigma.”

“No,” Thorin said.  “During our previous stay, I overheard you speaking with Gandalf.”  Now it was his turn to hesitate, but it was not his way to hide; he would follow the trail to the end.  “Regarding our quest to retake Erebor, and the illness to which my line has often been susceptible.”

Elrond’s eyebrows rose.

“I have been wrong before, and it seems I was wrong to fear your rule would be tainted as well.  You have proven to be a strong and just king,” he said, “able to resist your father’s and grandfather’s madness.  You have built Erebor into a bulwark against the darkness which ever seeks to befoul Middle Earth.” 

Thorin shook his head.

“I have been lucky,” he said.  “For I did fall to the illness of my forefathers.  Almost at the very moment we arrived at the Lonely Mountain I slipped into madness, but I was gifted with loyal and perceptive companions.  I was forced to recognise the signs of the madness, and it allowed me to recover myself and redress my actions.”  He sighed heavily. “For the most part, to redress my actions.”

Elrond nodded but didn’t comment further, for which Thorin was immensely grateful.  They attended to their food in silence for a short time while Thorin sought a change of subject.  This one pricked him painfully; and it was often on his mind, as he traveled to the Shire to see the one he had wounded the most during that time.  He would prefer not to be so exposed before Elrond’s discerning eye.

Perhaps he might turn the conversation to his host?

“Who accuses you of being deliberately enigmatic?” Thorin asked politely—at least, as politely as one can ask such a tactless question.

“Thranduil has been known to do so,” was Elrond’s placid reply.  “I believe he thinks I do it purposefully.”

Thorin could not hide his responding grin; he thought he had gleaned a sliver of insight into the mind of the Lord of Rivendell.  He would have gotten along with Elrond much better before if he had been able to read the rather extraordinarily subtle signs of his humour, especially if that humour had been at Thranduil’s expense.  From the tone with which he had answered Thorin’s query, Thorin suspected Elrond took care to be particularly opaque around the overweening King of the Wood Elves, and the thought of Thranduil’s resulting petulance…

Elrond was really not a bad sort at all, he decided.  Given enough time, he might be the one Elf Thorin could grow to like.

He would not, however, admit that to any of the Company; nor would he extend their stay here.  He suspected Elrond was more complaisant than his people, for he had seen the seneschal’s face as they approached the gates.  Some in Rivendell couldn’t wait to see the last of them, and the rest of his Company was as eager to leave the High Elves behind.

In terms of the distance from the Lonely Mountain to Bag End, Rivendell was perhaps halfway; however the portion of the journey behind them was by far the more difficult and dangerous segment of their trek.  From Rivendell to Bree was an easy ride, and from Bree to the heart of the Shire practically a child’s diversion.  Thorin intended to push through this last, undemanding part of their way as quickly as possible.

For this reason Thorin had not intended to make camp in the Trollshaws; they could travel far further from Rivendell in a day than the wreckage of that poor farmer’s home where they had camped that eventful night.  Several of the Company grew vexingly loud in their complaints, however, so Thorin made this compromise:  they would stop there for a short time, only long enough to rest the ponies and break their fast.

He regretted having been so generous when he learnt that Glóin, Nori, and Bofur only wanted to dig up the chest they had buried in the Troll’s cave and scavenge whatever else they might find.  He had said they would stop, however, so stop they did.

Was it petty of him to be pleased when the hidden treasure chest was gone?  Very likely it was, Thorin thought, but he refused to feel any remorse for it or any pity for those greedy asses.  They had a mountain full of more treasure than any hundreds of thousands of Dwarves could need behind them!  The valuable contents of this foul den—Orcrist and Glamdring, and to a lesser extent Bilbo’s Sting—had already been retrieved, and all that remained here were the bones of the Troll’s victims and a mere pittance of gold.  Exasperated, he herded the Company up onto their ponies and back to the East-West Road.

He had planned to drive the slothful wretches mercilessly the rest of the way to Bree, but the next morning Dwalin had viciously castigated him for the toll the first day’s speed had taken on their ponies and he was forced to a more reasonable pace.  He did not try at all to restrain himself from sulking because of that slower clip.  Sometimes having a friend who was willing to challenge his wisdom despite his rank was an irritating nuisance.

Nevertheless each day that brought them closer to Bree also brought a corresponding lifting of his mood.  By the time they reached Bree, he was in good spirits.  However Bilbo valued this Frodo, he had also written that Thorin was dear to him, that he had thought about him regularly during the past several years, and that those thoughts had been fond.  Even the fact that he had written Thorin a letter—and such a letter: candid, serious, vulnerable—it spoke to Thorin of a heart that belonged to him still.  He planned to claim it, and woe betide the Hobbit who thought to stand in his way.

 

 


	4. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and his Company arrive at Bag End at last.

Bree, of course, was a way stop for travelers of all kinds, primarily traders to and from Belegost or the Grey Havens and any number of exotic locales; but as Thorin and his Company saw more than enough traders from far off lands both in Dale as well as Erebor itself, they had no interest in such persons.  No, what caught the eyes of the Company—or rather, _who_ caught the eyes of the Company—were the Hobbits.  Bree was not overflowing with Hobbits; but as the gateway between the Shire and the rest of Middle Earth, it did see a fair number of them.  Some, Thorin learnt, even lived there; those who did seemed to look on the true Shirefolk with some disdain for their country ways and manners.  Thorin could detect no superiority in the manners of these folk to Bilbo’s; in fact, despite his tendency to occasional bouts of fussiness, he found Bilbo’s manners quite a bit better than those of the denizens of Bree.

Bree, on the other hand, seemed to find the Company of great interest; and while his small band proved inured to the overtures of any number of curious merchants and travelers of various sorts, they soon showed themselves to be easy prey to Bree’s Hobbits.

“Aye, ’twas a Firedrake from the North,” Thorin heard Bofur expand to a rapt audience (grown larger and larger as others overheard bits of the tale Bofur had only deigned to share with the handful of Hobbits who sat directly in front of him—the others unashamedly staying to eavesdrop).  “Smaug’d melt the flesh off your bones, he would—“

Thorin huffed and moved on.  He too had an interest in the Hobbits of Bree, though it was rather different than the fondness for their burglar the Company seemed to have transferred to all who shared his race.  He approached the low bar behind which a Hobbit served as barkeep, sat and ordered a pint of ale.  He was gratified to find that his quarry proved as curious about the Company and its business in Bree as any of his customers.

“You see Dwarves every now and again in Bree,” the barkeep told him, “but seldom the likes of you lot.  Not from Belegost then, are you?”

“Some of us hail from the Ered Luin originally, and all of us have lived there at one time or another; but no, we are the Dwarves of Erebor,” Thorin replied.

“Erebor, eh?” the Hobbit shrugged.  “Never heard of it.”

“It is far to the Northeast,” Thorin said.

“Headed back to the Blue Mountains for a visit or for trade?” asked the barkeep.

“No,” Thorin smiled thinly, though inwardly he was quite pleased that his chosen topic had arisen so easily.  “We go to Hobbiton, in the Shire, to visit the last member of our Company, who traveled with us to drive the Dragon from Erebor so we might reclaim our home at last.”

The jaded barkeep seemed to find this fact the most astonishing of all in the tale that Thorin and the other Dwarves had shared with the tavern.

“Never say it was a Hobbit!” he exclaimed.  “A Hobbit of the Shire, no less!”

“It was,” Thorin replied easily.  “Bilbo Baggins of Bag End is his name.”

The barkeep shook his head.

“Don’t know him,” he said.  “Never heard of him.  But a _Baggins_?  A Baggins off on an adventure to the East, complete with a troupe of Dwarves and a Dragon!  I never would have believed it.”  He snorted before nodding his head firmly.  “He must have a fair bit of Brandybuck in him, or maybe Took, no matter his name is Baggins.”

“I couldn’t say,” Thorin said.  “But you don’t know him?”

“No,” the Hobbit replied.  Thorin thanked him for his conversation and allowed him to return to his work.  He turned to survey the crowded inn for another who might serve his purposes.

But his hunt proved futile.  None of these Hobbits knew Bilbo, though many knew the name Baggins and seemed to share the barkeep’s opinion:  Bilbo must be some sort of changeling and no true Baggins to have joined the Dwarves’ expedition as he did.  Disgruntled, Thorin sought his bed long before the rest of the Company did.  He was amused to note that those few of the pub’s customers not enthralled by Bofur’s storytelling seemed certain that the tale of their adventures was grossly exaggerated.  He thought adding a bit of dramatic flair to his stories was not past Bofur, but in this case it was unnecessary; their trials had been just as extraordinary as Bofur described.  He had led a rarer group of Dwarves than he had known that night in Bag End, and apparently a strikingly unorthodox Hobbit as well.  That Bilbo was exceptional was of course something he already knew; but he had not realized quite how other Hobbits would view Bilbo’s unique, adventurous spirit.  The story Balin had related of Bilbo’s returning to find that after a year’s absence he had been declared dead, his house occupied, and his belongings in the process of being auctioned off seemed to Thorin—while still reprehensible—to make more sense now.  No wonder Bilbo had been shunned when he returned to the Shire.

Well.  If Hobbits were frightened of such a precious soul as Bilbo possessed—brave, kind, generous, loving—perhaps it might be easier to pry him away from this Frodo and take him back to Erebor where he belonged:  in Thorin’s heart and at Thorin’s side.

The Company did not linger in Bree.  As much as Thorin’s band might have enjoyed the attentions of other Hobbits the previous evening, it was a poor substitute for their own dear companion.  Thorin thought they were all even more eager than before to reach Bag End.  He suspected Bilbo would find himself overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the Dwarves’ greetings at best, and at worst might come out of it with a few cracked ribs.

Thorin would describe the feeling he had as he and his Company rode into Hobbiton more as satisfaction than joy.  He would call it joy when he saw Bilbo again.  On the other hand, the Company’s spirits were quite high indeed; every Hobbit they passed was greeted with a warmth appropriate for a reunion with a dear sibling from whom one had been separated for many years.  Many Hobbits fled from such approbation as if from Orcs, but some only kept a cautious eye on the Company as they passed; and a few of the Hobbits—children, mainly—seemed fascinated by the Dwarves.

Dusk was just beginning to touch the sky when the Company reached Bag End.  Somehow it seemed appropriate that they should once again descend upon Bilbo as he sat down to his dinner.  Perhaps Thorin might better appreciate the serendipity of this had he not been buried under an avalanche of nerves now that their final destination was before them.  Bilbo was only some few yards away behind that round green door; Thorin would see him in moments.  It was likely the unworthy Frodo was with him.  The questions about Bilbo’s life and love that Thorin had carried in his heart would be answered; the suspenseful anticipation of the past month would be at an end.

He wasn’t sure he was ready.

He had to force himself to dismount from his pony, and he stood before the gate to Bag End’s garden long enough that the Company began to shift their feet and cough nervously.  When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he turned to glare severely at his companions until they stilled; and then he pushed the gate open, walked up the few steps to Bag End’s door, and knocked.

There was no answer to his knock.  Nor was there any answer to his second knock, or the third (which was possibly a bit more forceful than required).

Thorin turned to face the waiting Company and threw his hands up in frustration.

“He won’t come to the door!” he complained.

“Maybe we should call to him?” Fili suggested.  “He might think it’s strangers or not want to interrupt his dinner.”  Thorin waved them on, and Fili and Kili pounded up the steps and began to loudly call Bilbo’s name.  The rest of the Company followed with more dignity; though they could hardly have had less than his two rambunctious sister-sons, who had near turned somersaults of excitement.

Still no one answered.  Thorin’s anxiety had been long forgotten in his frustration.  He was here; where was his Hobbit?

The Company seemed indefatigable in their fruitless efforts to roust Bilbo.  Thorin retreated to the garden bench facing the path to Bag End to escape the chaos and decide what to do next.  He lit his pipe and fumed silently to the background noise of a Dwarven assault on Bag End that—from the sound of it, at any rate—might level the Hobbit hole in a matter of minutes if left unchecked.

Only a few minutes had elapsed when a rather skittish Hobbit approached down the lane, his nervous eyes on the Dwarves besieging Bag End.

“ _Shazara_!” Thorin bellowed, and behind him the Company fell still.  The Hobbit continued to approach, slowly and with great caution, as if at any moment the Company might leap upon him like rabid wolves trapping a coney.

Finally he stood facing Thorin before Bag End’s gate.

“Good even’,” he said tremulously.  “I s’pose you’re seeking Mister Bilbo.”

“We do,” Thorin replied.  “As you can see, we are having little success.”

“Oh aye,” the Hobbit said with a bit more confidence.  “He and Mister Frodo have gone down to Brandy Hall, so Mister Frodo can visit with his cousins.  I expect they’ll be back in another fortnight or so.”

Thorin rubbed his forehead.

“He’s not here,” he repeated grimly.

“No,” the Hobbit said.

“Frodo went with him,” Thorin said.

“Aye,” the Hobbit agreed.

“It will be another _two weeks_ before he returns,” Thorin added.

“Aye, or perhaps a bit more,” the Hobbit said dubiously.  “A bit slow, are Dwarves?  Mister Bilbo never mentioned it.”  He paused briefly before stiffening his shoulders and narrowing his eyes at them.  “You are Mister Bilbo’s Dwarves, aren’t you?  Because if not, I’m going to have to ask you to leave quietly with no fuss.  Mister Bilbo left me in charge of Bag End while he’s gone.”

Thorin sighed.

“We are indeed Mister Bilbo’s Dwarves,” he said, “or more accurately:  he is our Hobbit.  And you, good Hobbit, are?”

“Hamfast Gamgee, Mister Dwarf,” the Hobbit said with an awkward tip to his cap.  “Would you like me to tell Mister Bilbo you came by?”

“No, Master Gamgee,” Thorin said.  “We’ll stay until his return.”

Hamfast Gamgee frowned.

“Just Hamfast, Mister Dwarf,” he said.  “I’m Mister Bilbo’s gardener.  And I’m afraid to say I can’t let you in; I promised Mister Bilbo I’d take proper care of Bag End, and already I don’t know what I’ll say to him about what you’ve done to the garden.”

“No, mannerless as my companions may be, we will not stay here without our host’s presence or knowledge,” Thorin said.  “Where might we find lodging?”

“I suppose in Hobbiton there’ll be those who can take you in,” Hamfast answered, “though mayhap not all in the same place.  Hobbiton doesn’t have an inn, precisely; only a few smials that will take on a boarder or two who’s visiting in the area.”

And so Thorin found himself fuming as he rode away from Bag End.  The cool night breeze offered no relief to his furious temper, which was only made worse after he took the wrong path a time or two; until Fili, with an apologetic look, bypassed Thorin’s pony to lead them back to Hobbiton without further incident.

Damn all Hobbits and their labyrinth of a Shire!  _Two more weeks_!


	5. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin meanders in the Hobbiton area, making an acquaintance or two among the locals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I have far too much on my plate, I have been feeling guilty for how long it has been since I last updated this...and yesterday I needed something a bit cheery to think about. So here you are! I would like to promise that the delay before the next chapter won't be two months, but I am too superstitious to dare do so.
> 
> And while I have your attention: on April 4th, 2013, I first posted a story for the Hobbit fandom, and the comments and encouragement of a few kind souls have kept me at it for the past year (and two days). Thank you all so much--you first ones, and all of you who have stopped by since then. I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me.

***

 

Unfortunately for the Company, by the time they reached Hobbiton all seemed shut up for the night; and there was no way to discern which Hobbits might be willing to let a room to a Dwarf or two.  A disgusted Thorin ordered the Company to proceed the mile or so south to Bywater.  If it was further from Bag End than he preferred, at least the Green Dragon would have rooms for all of them.  The morning was soon enough to consider what he and eleven other Dwarves might do while they waited for Bilbo’s return.  Two weeks, trapped in the Shire!  Two weeks to a Dwarf is not a substantial amount of time; certainly Thorin had in the past waited far longer than that for some anticipated event.  But he had waited years before he had given in to his desire to see Bilbo again, and having to wait an additional two weeks was a scorpion in his boot.  It wouldn’t kill him, but it stung a good deal.

 

The following morning came early for Thorin, as mornings often did for him; the habit formed by years of blacksmithing had proved difficult to break.  And in the years he had reigned over Erebor, it had seemed to him that kings often needed to rise early as well.  Only the tasks that lay before him each day had changed.

 

The Green Dragon’s common room was nearly empty when Thorin descended from his room.  Only the inn’s mistress and a young girl were present.  Thorin greeted them both with a solemn nod.  The girl giggled and ran off, but the innkeeper ushered him into a seat.

 

“I never expected any of you to be up for first breakfast!” she said.  “You were that late last night.  But there’s  porridge with nuts and apples, and brown sugar if you like, and there’s plenty of it; or toast with butter and jam, and maybe a hard boiled egg?”

 

“Toast and egg,” Thorin said.  “And an apple if there’s one to spare from the porridge.”

 

“Oh, certainly,” she said.  “I’ll be right back with your toast and some tea.”

 

She bustled away to the kitchen and was back again only minutes later with his food.  Toast and an egg had sounded a reasonable breakfast when she offered it, but in actuality it was a stack of thick pieces of bread four high, toasted golden brown and buttered on both sides, three kinds of jam, two hard boiled eggs (still warm), and an apple cut into slices and served fanned out on a plate with a small chunk of cheese and some walnuts perched in the middle, and honey drizzled over it all.  And tea:  a full pot, piping hot, with sugar and cream accompanying it.

 

Thorin stared at it.

 

“Did I forget something?” the innkeeper fussed.  “You’ll have to wait until second breakfast for roast tomatoes & kippers, but I could bring a slice or two of ham.  Or maybe you’d like porridge as well as toast?”

 

“No!” Thorin said.  “Thank you!  This is more than adequate.  I am surprised, that is all; the last time I was in the Shire I was served a bowl of soup and a plate of scones for my supper.”

 

“Never say!” the innkeeper said.  “Who would be such a terrible host?  None are so stingy round these parts.  We Hobbits are fond of our food, but happy to share, I guess!”  She paused.  “Well—perhaps there’s an exception to every rule.”  She went to the fire and began building it up until it was a hearty warmth at his side.  “Don’t tell me who it was!  I should rather think better of someone than they deserve than know such a terrible thing about someone—and be reminded of it every time I see them at the market!”

 

“I believe there were extenuating circumstances, Mistress Hobbit,” Thorin said.  “I was a late-arriving guest to an unexpected party.”

 

“Hmph,” she said, shaking her head.  Clearly there was no excuse for such a shoddy welcome in her mind.  Having finished with the fire, she looked around the spotless pub as if in search of something in need of polishing.  Finding nothing, she hurried off to the kitchen and returned with an additional plate for Thorin, on which were three slices of ham and two of the roasted tomatoes she had said were only for second breakfast.

 

Thorin tried to finish the entire meal under the innkeeper’s gimlet eye, but he was not equal to the task.  When he waved the inn’s mistress over to clear away what was left, she clucked her tongue at him as if he were a sadly disappointing Dwarfling; but she cleaned it all up in a trice.

 

“Thank you, Mistress Hobbit,” he said.  “Your hospitality is as gracious as any I have ever been honoured with, and I have guested with Elven kings and lords of Men.”  Though seldom of my own desiring.

 

“Hush now,” she said, and swiped at him with her cleaning cloth.  “And I’m Lily Cotton, Master Dwarf; none of this Mistress Hobbit for me.”

 

“Mistress Cotton,” Thorin began, but she interrupted him.  This time the clout from the dishcloth had a bit more punch behind it.

 

“Plain Lily, if you please,” she said.  “Now are you sure you won’t have another pot of tea?”

 

Thorin declined and indicated that he intended to go for a walk in the early morning light.  She waved him out the door with a serene, “Second breakfast is at nine o’clock!  Don’t be late, else the kippers will be gone!”

 

The Hobbit child who had been inside the pub earlier was playing in the inn’s yard.  She turned curious eyes on him.

 

“I’ve never seen a Hobbit like you before,” she said.  “Did you come from Bree?”

 

“I’m a Dwarf, not a Hobbit,” Thorin replied.  “And we came through Bree, but I am from further east.”

 

“Oh,” she said, frowning.

 

Apparently he was failing to meet some mysterious Hobbit standards:  first, by not finishing a breakfast big enough for three Dwarves; second, by being a Dwarf instead of a Hobbit; and third, by living somewhere other than Bree.

 

He wondered what other inexplicable Hobbit tests he might face and fail this day.

 

As he turned down the lane towards Hobbiton, he considered how he might spend the next fortnight without going mad.  He intended to learn more about “young Frodo,” for one; but he wouldn’t expose himself—or Bilbo—to the Shire’s gossips, not if he could help it.  So he couldn’t disclose the nature of his interest…

 

Occupied as he was with such thoughts, he paid little attention to his surroundings; but he was disgusted with himself when he looked up to realise that he was once again lost in the Shire.  He had stayed on the main road the entire time!  

 

Hadn’t he?  

 

He turned and backtracked to the first intersection he encountered.  Nothing seemed familiar.  Which way was Bywater?  Or Hobbiton, even; he was certain he could find his way back to Bywater from there.  He chose a direction, and turned off the road onto the lane that seemed to go the right way.

 

Half an hour later, he knew he had chosen wrong.  No matter.  He would find the way yet.  He turned and went back to the intersection where he had made his mistake.

 

He couldn’t find it.

 

Disgruntled, he leant against a wood fence lining the path and considered what to do.  The sun suggested that it neared mid-morning, so east lay that way…which meant south was this way, and Bywater was south of Hobbiton.  The path seemed to go in a north-south orientation, but the ways twisted and turned here so…This one turned to the west after a quarter mile or so, he believed.

 

He thought it did.

 

He was considering leaving the lane and going cross-country in a southerly direction when a young Hobbit came down the way, carrying a basket full of greens with a small bunch of bedraggled white flowers tucked into the side.  He had the tousled curls of most Hobbits—his were blond—a sprinkle of freckles across a sunburnt nose, and his hands were smudged with dirt.

 

Thorin nodded absently at the child, who nodded back.  After he had passed by, he turned his head to stare back at Thorin, who raised an eyebrow.  The youngster whipped his head around and continued on his way.

 

Ten minutes later, he was back, a puzzled frown on his face.

 

“Mornin’, Mister,” the young Hobbit said.

 

“Good morning,” Thorin replied.

 

“Begging your pardon, Mister,” he said.  “What’re you doing?”

 

Thorin sighed.  “I am going to Bywater.”

 

The child’s brow furrowed further.

 

“This path doesn’t go to Bywater,” he said.  “I guess if you keep going, you’ll meet the road to Waymeet and could come around from the west; but it’s a long step out of your way.  And it’s nearly time for elevenses!”

 

“Dwarves don’t have elevenses,” Thorin said.  “So if I miss it, I am not concerned; but I would like to be back at our inn before lunch.”  He paused.  “Would you be able to point me in the direction of Bywater?”

 

“‘Course,” the child said.  “If’n you don’t mind waiting while I take these lettuce to Mum.”

 

Thorin nodded his consent and followed the child down the lane.

 

“Are you staying in Bywater, Mister Dwarf?” the boy asked.

 

“I am,” Thorin said.  “My companions and I are staying at the Green Dragon.”

 

“Oh aye,” the child said.  “Mistress Cotton makes the best ginger biscuits in the West Farthing.”

 

Thorin snorted.  “She hit me with a towel this morning when I called her Mistress Cotton.”

 

The young Hobbit looked at him like he were a simpleton.

 

“You’re Quality, aren’t you?” he said, as if such a nonsensical statement should be obvious to anyone.

 

“I am a Dwarf like any other, come to visit my good friend and erstwhile companion,” Thorin said.

 

“But who’s your friend, Mister Dwarf?” the child asked.  “There’s only one Hobbit I know of that knows Dwarves, and that’s Mister Baggins.”

 

“Yes,” Thorin replied.

 

“Aye,” the youngster said.  “Quality.”

 

Thorin sighed and gave up.  He and the young Hobbit walked in silence for some time, until Thorin realised they had just passed a familiar green door.

 

“There’s Bag End,” he said.

 

“Oh aye,” the young Hobbit said.  “We’re at number three Bagshot Row.  Da’s been the Baggins’ gardener for years.”  He puffed up.  “He lets me help sometimes, and when I’m grown I’m to be their gardener too.”

 

“Are you?” Thorin asked.  “A worthy ambition.”  He paused.  “I believe I met your father yesterday evening; at least, I met a Hobbit who claimed to be the gardener at Bag End.”

 

“Aye, that’s my da right enough,” the child said.  “He’s over there today; said there was a ‘serious incident’ with the roses.  He’s that worried he won’t be able to fix it before Mister Baggins is back from Brandy Hall.”

 

Thorin decided silence regarding the ‘serious incident with the roses’ would be the prudent choice, lest the lad become the third Hobbit he disappointed this morning.  A change of subject seemed in order.

 

“Companions on a journey should know each other’s names, lad,” he said.  “I am Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

“Aye, Mister Oakenshield,” the boy said.  “I’m Samwise Gamgee, sir.”

 

“Just Thorin,” he said.  “Oakenshield is an epithet, not my name.”

 

“Aye, Mister Oakenshield,” Samwise said.  He opened the gate and led Thorin up the short walk to what must be his family’s Hobbit hole.  Samwise’s father’s gardening skills were evident everywhere.  The garden was a riot of colourful flowers and vegetables all mixed together, yet the overall effect was one of beauty and abundance rather than confusion and chaos.  Thorin waited on the step while Samwise delivered his basket to his mother, who upon hearing Samwise’s tale of finding him forlorn on the side of the lane like a lost lamb, pressed him urgently to come in and rest a while.  As politely but firmly as he could, he refused her repeated invitations to stay for elevenses; but she didn’t relent until Samwise said, “Mister Oakenshield is staying at the Green Dragon in Bywater, Mum.”

 

The frown cleared from her face immediately.

 

“Well no wonder!” she said.  “Lily Cotton’s food is the best in the Shire!  Go on, then, Samwise; Mister Oakenshield will have to hurry to be at the Green Dragon by elevenses!”

 

“Mistress Gamgee,” Thorin began, in an attempt to explain that he didn’t intend to slight her cooking, but he was cut off by the sharp flick of Mistress Gamgee’s tea towel to his chest.

 

“None o’ that, now,” she said sternly.  “I’m plain Bell, Mister Oakenshield; I don’t hold with putting on airs.”

 

“And I am plain Thorin,” he said; but she ignored him, turning instead to her son.

 

“Off with you now, Samwise; I’ll save a plate for you in the cold box,” she said.  “And mind your manners with Mister Oakenshield.”

 

“Aye, Mum,” Samwise answered, and Thorin found himself managed out the door and into the lane before he could protest being called ‘Mister Oakenshield’ again.

 

Samwise led him off at a quick trot, and after a short period of silence (in which Samwise glanced up at Thorin and then away again at a rate of roughly once every five seconds) the young Hobbit began to speak; and from that point on he kept up a steady chatter until they passed the large pond that Samwise told him was called Bywater Pool.

 

“This village ahead must be Bywater, then,” Thorin said.

 

“Oh aye, Mister Oakenshield,” Samwise said.  “The Green Dragon is just the other side of town, near the East Road.  I’ll have you there by elevenses right enough.”

 

Thorin repressed a smile.  Samwise had approached the task of guiding him back to Bywater as a solemn charge; and his serious, determined face—he was a likely lad, Thorin thought.  He was reminded of Fíli at that age.

 

“Thank you,” he said.  “I was lucky to fall into your competent hands.”

 

“I’m sure anyone might get lost between Bywater and Overhill,” Samwise said, though his tone of voice was doubtful.  “And next time you’ll know the way.  How long will you be here, Mister Oakenshield?”

 

“I’m not certain,” Thorin said.  “Much depends on our friend.  But I am told that Master Baggins will not return for two weeks, so it will be at least that long.”

 

“Well then!” Samwise said.  “You’ll know your way around the whole Shire by the time Mister Baggins and Mister Frodo are home!”

 

Thorin stilled.   _Of course.  Samwise was Bilbo’s neighbour, and his father Bilbo’s gardener; of course he would know of young Frodo._

 

“Do you know Frodo as well as Master Baggins?” he asked Samwise.

 

“I see Mister Frodo when Mister Baggins gives me lessons,” Samwise answered.  “I go three times a week.  Mister Baggins is teaching me to read.  But Mister Frodo already knows how, of course, so he studies something else while I have my reading lessons.”

 

“Is young Frodo a scholar, then?” he asked.

 

“He knows ever so much!” Samwise said.  “But Mister Baggins is the best teacher, after all; and Mister Frodo is smart as anything.”

 

Thorin was deliberating on his strategy for extracting as much information regarding young Frodo as he could from Samwise without scaring the lad or awakening what Thorin suspected were some formidable protective instincts.  From his tone of voice, Thorin had gathered that Samwise admired young Frodo quite a bit.  And then they stood before the Green Dragon.  Dori, Óin, and Glóin were sitting on a broad bench in the inn’s yard, and they stood as Thorin and his guide approached.

 

“There you are,” Dori said.  Thorin was a bit offended by how relieved he sounded.  Did they think he couldn’t manage a simple morning’s walk?

 

“We were a bit worried when Mistress Lily said you’d gone for a walk by yourself this morning,” Óin added.

 

“I’ll find Fíli to tell him you’re back,” Glóin said.  “I think he wasn’t going to send out the search parties until after lunch, but it’s best to be sure.”

 

Thorin chose to ignore his insolent companions, and turned to his young guide instead.

 

“I thank you again, Samwise,” he said.  “You have been of great service to me.”  He took a small coin from his purse and pressed it into the Hobbit’s hand.

 

“Thank you, Mister Oakenshield, but I couldn’t take anything for helping you,” Samwise said, pushing the coin back.  “It was just a walk to Bywater!  It was an honour to meet a friend of Mister Baggins.”

 

Thorin tried again, but found that Samwise’s stubborn streak was a match for his own.  He was beginning to consider if it was possible to win this skirmish with his dignity intact (for he didn’t think Samwise would take the coin unless it was forced on him, and he was not prepared to wrestle the young Hobbit into compliance) when Lily Cotton came out of the inn.  Glóin followed her, along with a smirking Fíli and Kíli.

 

“Samwise Gamgee, you’re a treasure,” she said.  Already pink from his sunburn, Samwise turned bright red all the way to the tips of his ears.

 

“I was happy to show Mister Oakenshield the way, Mistress Cotton,” he said.

 

“Come inside now; you’ll want elevenses before you go home,” Lily Cotton told him, but Samwise shook his head.

 

“Thank you, ma’am; Mum’s saving me a plate,” he said.

 

“All right, but wait just a moment,” she said.  She bustled inside the inn and returned a few minutes later with a small cloth bundle.  “At least take some biscuits for you and your brothers and sisters.”

 

Samwise’s face came alight.

 

“Thank you, Mistress Cotton!” he said.  “That’s very kind!”  He took the bundle, skirted Thorin with a brief nod (as if worried Thorin would force coins on him after all), and trotted off down the road.

 

Lily Cotton hardly waited until Samwise was out of the yard before rounding on Thorin.

 

“Mister Oakenshield, what am I to do with you?” she asked.  “Second breakfast is long gone, and you’ve nearly missed elevenses too!  And your nephews were that worried!”

 

Thorin had not been scolded so since Dís first came to Erebor after Smaug’s death.

 

“My apologies, Mistress Cotton,” he said.  “I was deep in thought rather than paying attention to the path my feet took; and as you can see, I lost my way.”

 

She didn’t have her dishcloth in hand, but the look she directed at him was stern enough to cow the most fearless warrior.

 

“It’s Lily, Mister Oakenshield,” she said.  “Now come along.”

 

Feeling more like a Dwarfling than ever, Thorin followed Lily Cotton into the Green Dragon, and sat meekly while he was served an elevenses so large—never mind three Dwarves; it was enough for three dozen Dwarves.  He ignored the Company’s laughing comments.  They seemed equally divided between those who thought it more amusing that he had lost his way and those who found the innkeeper’s domineering treatment of the king of Erebor more entertaining.  Embarrassing as it might have been to become lost in the Shire and guided back to his inn by a child, Thorin had inadvertently discovered in Samwise Gamgee a source of information about the irksome Frodo.  It would be easy enough to seek out the lad again; and by the time Bilbo returned to Bag End, Thorin intended to know enough to destroy Frodo as thoroughly as any enemy he had ever faced.  In his mind the morning had been a resounding success.

  
  



	6. The Shire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure it's full of mistakes and all kinds of awful but here it is at last, so please forgive me!
> 
> Arrggggggh...

***

Thorin had been prepared to dislike Bilbo’s neighbours, given what he knew of his treatment upon his return to Bag End; but he couldn’t.  This was Bilbo’s home:  not only Bag End but the town of Hobbiton and its folk as well, and Thorin was reminded of Bilbo everywhere he went.  Perhaps Hobbits in Bree had not heard of Bilbo Baggins, but this close to Bagshot Row, wherever Thorin chose to wander, “Master Bilbo” was notorious.

 

The children, of course, were friendly and inquisitive; and some of the older Hobbits were welcoming to the Company also, if more circumspect regarding their curiosity.  As Thorin haphazardly explored the Shire, more than one of the Hobbits who greeted him cautiously spoke of Bilbo as admirable (if also scandalous).  His reputation, though besmirched, still carried weight with some, it seemed.

 

And Thorin went a lot of places.  He did not walk with a particular destination in mind.  Bag End was often in his thoughts, but he did not travel there every day.  He thought he would begin to recognise the ways of the Shire, but that was not the case; and though he never intended to do so, he became lost more often than not.  After the third or fourth time it happened, every Hobbit child in the Shire seemed to be looking out for him—so that whenever he passed one (or a group of them) playing, they stopped what they were doing to ask, “All right, Mister Oakenshield?”

 

He became resigned to more often than not being led back to the Green Dragon by a young Hobbit.  He seemed to pick them up like burrs, so that at times he walked in the midst of a merry bunch of children, all laughing and chattering away to him as they escorted him back to the inn.

 

The primary motivation and reward was clearly the biscuits Lily Cotton doled out the the helpful fauntling (or fauntlings); and then Bofur began to carve small toys for them as well:  whistles, wagons, animals, miniature Dwarves or Hobbits…but they seemed to enjoy Thorin’s company as well.  He didn’t know what to say to them, and there were so _many_ —Samwise was the only one he knew by name.  But they chattered away and he listened, and he wondered if this was what Bilbo had been like as a child:  happy, carefree, curious, fearless, friendly…  Thorin had little experience of children beyond Fíli and Kíli, and he had been gone for much of their childhood, travelling as he sought work blacksmithing; and then after Víli’s death…well, Fíli and Kíli were fine young Dwarves, but their childhood had not always been stable.  They learnt to be cautious early on.

 

Well.  Fíli learnt caution.  Kíli was incapable of it.

 

Thorin was not the only one of the Company who explored the environs of Bywater and Hobbiton, though he remained the only one who found himself lost…and on more than one occasion.  As the days passed, many of the Hobbits they encountered remained wary of the Dwarves; as time passed, many began to thaw.

 

Some number of Hobbits even began to be positively friendly.  Their second day in the Shire, Fíli and Kíli had discovered Bywater Pool; and the next afternoon they dragged everyone out to it, including Thorin, despite his protests that he had seen it the first day.  Fíli shook his head in disappointment.

 

“Holding out on us, Uncle?” he said.  “You’ve gotten stodgier than the oldest of the codgers back at the mountain.  I bet you didn’t think even once, ‘That looks like a nice place for a swim,’ did you?”

 

Thorin hadn’t—nor could he remember the last time he had swum for amusement rather than necessity.  And he had been distracted shortly after seeing the pond for the first time by the realisation that as Bilbo’s neighbour, Samwise would be likely to know much about the loathsome Frodo.  But it was heart-warming to see Fíli and Kíli so unweighed down by their responsibilities—heavy as they were on such young shoulders.  And the splashing of the laughing Dwarves seemed to wash away any traces of uncertainty from the Hobbits picnicking and boating.  Word seemed to spread:  those Dwarves of Mister Bilbo’s weren’t such a bad sort.

 

Thorin even allowed his sister-sons to prevail upon him to swim with them, and first one, than another fauntling came to watch him, until it seemed his entire collection of young guides gathered at the bank and climbed the trees to shout and laugh at him.  Thorin had always been too busy for Dwarven children.  Time with Fíli and Kíli was difficult enough to find.  And burdened as he was by the troubles of his people, he had not missed it.

 

But the Hobbit children were sweet, and not all were as solemn as Samwise (that earnest fauntling remained Thorin’s favourite); and Thorin came to enjoy the chattering of fauntlings escorting him back to the inn.

 

He had set aside his duties to Erebor for this short time, and he was determined to value the respite.  Soon enough he must pick up his crown again, but for these two weeks—and as long as Bilbo would have them stay after his return—Thorin could be ‘plain Mister Oakenshield,’ with nothing more urgent to do than find a fauntling to guide him back to the Green Dragon when he was late to lunch.

 

And learn what he could about Frodo, of course, but that had to be approached delicately.

 

A week passed this way before Thorin realised that he didn’t know what he would say to Bilbo when he returned.  It had occurred to him that perhaps he might do better than to descend upon Bilbo with all the riotous Company as he had originally thought to do.

 

Nor had he any idea yet how to separate Bilbo from his young seducer.

 

He needed to speak to some of the Hobbits—and not the fauntlings.  He considered walking into Hobbiton.  After what Mistress Cotton called “a wee first breakfast” of a hearty grain porridge, topped with a generous dollop of ginger-rhubarb compote and walnuts, along with another steaming pot of tea, he had thanked Mistress Cotton and stood for his walk.

 

Mistress Cotton regarded him sternly.

 

“Where do you think you’re going, Mister Oakenshield?” she asked.

 

“I thought to enjoy a morning walk,” Thorin replied.  “I am seldom able to enjoy a solitary constitutional when at home.”

 

“I imagine not!” she humphed.  “You would no doubt waste away to nothing from skipped meals, the way you walk on and on!  No; if you’ve nothing else to do, you may help yourself to any of the books on the shelf by the fire.  I’ll make you up a picnic to take with you.  It’ll be ready after second breakfast.”

 

Thorin scowled.  “I am unaccustomed to accounting to another for my plans, and I do not require a second breakfast or any sort of picnic.  I intend merely a short walk.  A few miles at best.”

 

Lily Cotton crossed her arms and looked at him as if he were a Dwarfling too young to leave his mother’s care.

 

“Oh aye,” she said.  “And what do you think they’ll say in Hobbiton when you stumble into the market:  hungry, thirsty, as if I turned you out the door without a proper meal and told you to forage for yourself, and the dew still on the grass?  I run a proper inn, Mister Oakenshield; and I’ll not have it said that I don’t!  You’ll take a book, and you’ll sit by the fire and read it until second breakfast, and after second breakfast you may have a fine walk and be back in time for elevenses if you won’t take a picnic.  Though I believe I’ll send one with you in any case.”

 

Thorin sighed.  Mistress Cotton, no doubt sensing her victory, rewarded him with a benevolent smile.

 

“You’ll find one of Mister Baggins’ books in our collection,” she said.  “Belba Bolger gave them round as birthday presents some years ago, and she’s always thrown a proper birthday party.  I believe half the Shire was there; and while most of us are not in the common way given to poetry, everyone was quite impressed with Mister Baggins’ book.  He does know how to rhyme, Mister Baggins does.  The one about mushrooms was excellent.”  She bustled over to the shelves by the hearth and sorted through the dozen or so books there.  “Here ’tis.”  She handed it to Thorin expectantly; and though neither was he “in the common way given to poetry,” unless it was the mournful dirges the Dwarves had written in exile from Erebor, he took it with an incline of his head.

 

“Stop with your nonsense,” she said.  “Bowing and such!  I’ll bring you another pot of tea while you read.”

 

“Thank you, Mis—“ he began.  She flicked him with her dishcloth.  He had not seen it.  She seemed to produce it from air when she wanted to remonstrate him.  “Lily.  Tea would be welcome.”

 

She nodded approvingly and hurried off to the kitchen.  Shortly after she returned with his pot of tea, the Company began to trickle down the stairs to the common room.  He ignored them to open Bilbo’s book:  _Follow the Brandywine (Where’er She Might Flow, ’Till Down to the Sea She Does Go)_.

 

The poems were, for the most part, charming.  Very different from Dwarven poetry, of course, which was more given to songs and chants then collected in books; Bilbo’s poems were full of the language of the Shire:  the joys of good food, jolly friends, and a rolling green countryside peacefully tucked away from the rest of the world.  Some of it, like _An Ode to Mushrooms_ , which it seemed had gained the approbation of the Hobbit audience, seemed to Thorin frivolous; but there was also a strand of longing within some of the verse, as if Bilbo knew that his desire to see the world outside the bounds of the Shire was to remain unrealised, though he longed for an adventure still.  The poem from which the book took its title, _Follow the Brandywine_ , was as melancholy as if the poet mourned for a lost lover rather than a journey never taken.

 

His pensive musings upon the subject were interrupted by Fíli as he joined Thorin in sitting by the wide hearth.  It was just as well.  Thorin would rather not ruminate on how Bilbo’s feelings for him might compare to those expressed in the poem.

 

“Good morning, Uncle,” he said.  “Lily tells us that you plan to walk to the Hobbiton market after breakfast.”

 

“She does, does she?” Thorin snorted.  “Mistress Cotton is near as managing as your mother.  But certainly I do intend to walk to Hobbiton as soon as our hostess has given me parole; and I may happen upon the market during my excursion.”

 

“Good!” Fíli replied.  “I would enjoy seeing the market, and I imagine I’m not alone.  Bofur and Dori have both said they’d like to see ‘the Hobbits’ goings on,’ and Kíli at least will want to come, too.  I’ll tell the others.”

 

“I intend a solitary sojourn,” Thorin said.

 

“You’ll only brood,” Fíli said.  “And probably get lost again.”

 

“I do not brood,” Thorin said.  Fíli said nothing, only raised an eyebrow.

 

“Fine,” Thorin gave in as graciously as he could, though he was aware his thunderous scowl could hardly be considered such.  “All who wish may walk with me, though I make no promise of the market.  It’s likely I won’t pass it.  I generally prefer a more pastoral path.”

 

“It’s all pastoral in the Shire,” Fíli said.  “And don’t worry; Lily told me how to get to the Hobbiton market.  I think even you can’t miss it.”

 

“Your brother would make a fine king,” Thorin threatened.

 

Fíli snorted.  “No he wouldn’t,” he said.  “But feel free to name him first heir if you wish.  Only tell me before you do so I have time to hide.  The complaining would never stop.”

 

“I would not complain about your brother,” Thorin said.  “He is more competent than you give him credit for.”

 

“I meant his complaining about you,” Fíli replied.  “But it’s good to hear I could be replaced so easily.”

 

Thorin glared at him.  “You know that isn’t true.”

 

“I do,” Fíli said, smiling.  Thorin returned his smile for a moment before remembering he was annoyed by his sister-son’s managing.  He slumped back in his comfortable chair with a frown.

 

“Go gather any others who wish to walk to Hobbiton this morning,” he said.  “I’ll not wait past what Mistress Cotton requires.”

 

Out of nowhere, a dish towel flicked his ear.

 

“It’s Lily, Mister Oakenshield,” his hostess chided.

 

Thorin narrowed his eyes at Fíli.  If that whelp laughed, he was going to whip him around the inn’s common room with Orcrist’s flat.  But his sister-son was an intelligent Dwarf.  He pressed his lips together hard and retreated.  Thorin could hear laughter from the stairs once he was out of sight, but that was enough to preserve his dignity.

 

***

 

In the end, the entire Company chose to walk to the Hobbiton market after second breakfast.  After Fíli headed off his second attempt to leave the main road for a more appealing side lane, Thorin sent a pleading look over his shoulder at Dwalin.  His friend snorted, but stepped briskly to his side.  Fíli dropped back to walk with his brother.

 

“What is it you’re planning?” Dwalin asked him.  “You have that look.”

 

“I plan nothing beyond a morning walk,” Thorin said.  “The days until Bilbo’s return are many, and I don’t intend to lie a-bed like a slug for all of them.”

 

Dwalin humphed.  “Sparring practice after lunch, then?” he asked.

 

“After dinner,” Thorin replied.  “I intend the afternoon for meeting some of the local Hobbits.”

 

“For what?” Dwalin asked.

 

Thorin did not answer.  Dwalin humphed again, and they passed the remainder of the walk to Hobbiton in silence.

 

Dwalin did have to steer him back to the Hobbiton road once; but he did so easily, without any of Fíli’s suppressed laughter.  A blessed improvement, to Thorin’s mind.

 

Once they reached the busy market, Thorin was able to slip away on his own.  He wasn’t _ashamed_ of his plan to learn what he could of his rival’s weaknesses, but he didn’t want any of the Company interfering, whether to hinder him, or in a misguided attempt to help.  The best of Dwarves they might be, but the only subtle Dwarf in the Company had remained in Erebor.

 

Both Dwalin and Fíli made nominal attempts to remain with him, but the market was full of distractions.  Kíli dragged Fíli off almost immediately to a brewer’s stall.  Dwalin lasted only five minutes longer.

 

“Ah, if you don’t leave the market, you can’t get lost,” he said as they passed a display of baked goods.  “Go on and stalk ahead if you like.  I’m going to try one or two of those scones.”

 

Thorin allowed himself a small smile before turning towards the centre of the market.  He slowed his pace and turned his ear towards the Hobbits’ gossip.

 

There was much of it, mostly centred around the Company—the Hobbits seemed both fascinated and appalled by the Dwarves in their midst.  Most fell quiet as he passed by, of course; but they waited only until his back was to them to begin again.  Thorin had no difficulty overhearing any number of conversations until he found one that showed promise for his purposes.

 

“—prancing off whenever he pleases,” a petulant female voice said from the farmer’s stall to the left of the one where Thorin stood.  “The head of the family has responsibilities!  He should be stable.  Respectable.  Content with his place and his home, not off hither and yon with the breeze!”

 

“Come, Lobelia,” her companion replied.  “Brandy Hall is hardly ‘hither and yon.’  And now that he’s come to live with Mister Baggins, Frodo has very little chance to see his Brandybuck cousins.”

 

“Brandybuck upstart, that’s what he is!” the first Hobbit replied.  “I’m sure I don’t know what Bilbo was thinking when he took him in.  It’s a scandal.  My Otho is left in the cold while that sycophantic whelp will have everything when Bilbo is gone!”

 

“Sackville House is lovely!  And right in the centre of town; you have the loveliest home in all Hobbiton!” the second Hobbit exclaimed.

 

“It’s well enough, I suppose; but it’s hardly a smial, is it?” the first Hobbit said with a sniff.

 

“There’s no talking to you when you’re like this,” the second Hobbit said.  “Good day, Lobelia.  I’ll see you at tea tomorrow.”

 

Thorin stole a glance at the two Hobbit women.  The first one, Lobelia, the one who had complained about the despised Frodo, regarded the cheeses piled up in front of her as if they were the “Brandybuck upstart” in question.  Her expression was sour, but she quickly smoothed it into something more bland.

 

Hobbit attire was nothing like that of either Dwarves or Elves, but shared surprising similarities with Men’s clothing.  Unlike the Men of Laketown and Dale, however, even the poorest Hobbits’ clothing was sturdy and in good repair.  The differing quality showed in the choice of fabric and ornamentation.  On this warm spring day, Lobelia wore a pink dress embroidered all over with golden flowers—to Thorin’s eyes it seemed ostentatious.  The fabrics were fine; clearly this Hobbit had wealth aplenty without inheriting Bilbo’s money.  Perhaps it was painful to see some young ne’er-do-well take advantage of a beloved relative.  Nevertheless, she had spoken ungratefully; and Bilbo’s fortune was his to dispose of as he wished.  Thorin didn’t care whether Bilbo left everything he had to Frodo or this grasping relative.  Bilbo himself was the true treasure.

 

Nor did she seem to esteem him properly—only to want him to comply with her expectations.  Likely she was one of the ones that had ostracised him and complained when he returned.

 

And Mahal, what was that on her head?

 

Thorin didn’t like it, but he had done more distasteful things in pursuit of his goals.  He could do this.

 

He rounded the corner of the cheesemaker’s booth and stepped up beside the gossipy Hobbit, pretending to admire the cheesemaker’s wares.  She stiffened and looked at him out of the corner of her eye like a coney frozen under a predator’s gaze.  She even wrinkled her nose like a rabbit.  Thorin nodded to the cheesemaker and stifled a scornful smile as he bowed his head to Bilbo’s ungrateful relative.

 

“Madam Hobbit, I could not help but hear your earlier conversation,” he said.

 

“I am Thorin Oakenshield, a Dwarf of Erebor.  Some years ago Master Baggins was a valued travel companion of ours, and I am sorry to hear that his generosity is being imposed upon.”  He sighed dramatically.  “Bilbo has so big a heart.  Is this Frodo truly taking advantage of him?  Is there nothing that can be done?”

 

She frowned down her nose at him.  Thorin waited.

 

“You should be sorry,” she told him.  “It’s your fault!  You Dwarves and your adventuring!  Bilbo Baggins was a most respectable Hobbit before he went off for adventures with the likes of you!”

 

“I’m certain—“ Thorin began.

 

“And coming back the way he did, so unexpectedly!  Why, we all believed he was dead!  Then after an absence of more than two years, up the lane he comes, dressed like a vagabond, with a pack on his back and a sword in his hand and all manner of nonsense in his head.”

 

 _Mahal, help me._   With some difficulty Thorin bit his tongue.  Perhaps he should not do this after all.

 

Thorin wasn’t certain he wanted to continue with this—as much as he wanted to learn Frodo’s weaknesses, so he might exploit them to separate him from Bilbo, he was reminded of all the times he had to pretend to be less than he was, to kowtow and cater to others.  He had sworn never to do it again, yet here he was.

 

He should not like to tell Bilbo what he’d done.

 

Perhaps he was ashamed of his intentions after all.

 

How, then, to win Bilbo away from Frodo?  It required further thought.

 

Upon arriving to Bag End to find Bilbo absent, a fortnight had seemed an endless span of time to wait.  Half that time was now gone, and Thorin was no closer to his goal.  Only seven days remained until he would stand before Bilbo again.  He must apologise, and explain, and plead with his Hobbit; and these were all actions he hated.

 

His quest to the Shire was beginning to seem quite as daunting as the one to win Erebor from Smaug.  He could only hope, as Bilbo had written him, that one young Hobbit proved easier to vanquish than a Fire Drake from the North.

**Author's Note:**

> The flowers in the title denote the following: deception (winter cherry), parental affection (wood sorrel), and of course love (red rose). And all the roses in the world to you all, for being your lovely selves!
> 
> Come see [me on tumblr](https://salviag.tumblr.com) if you want to chat!


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